


Take Another Hit

by bellatemple



Series: But Deadly [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mute Dean Winchester, Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-10
Updated: 2009-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The demons have Dean and Mary's not talking, and all Sam wants is answers.  And his goddamn brother back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Another Hit

Sam's earliest memories were made of smoke and flashes of light, indistinct patterns and faint mumblings, all jumbled up out of order, tumbling around loose in his head like brightly colored blocks he built into slightly different shapes each time he tried to pick them up.

Every one of them had Dean in it.

There was one in particular Sam revisited more frequently than the others, whenever he was feeling particularly masochistic or self-recriminating. He'd never shared the memory with anyone.

He'd been to preschool or day care or maybe even just the park, he couldn't be sure which. A boy there had known him -- the kid was too unremarkable in the memory to be called a friend. He'd known Dean, too, by reputation if nothing else, and had asked, in a child-like, guileless way, why Sam's big brother was a retard.

It was the first time Sam had heard the word at all, much less directed at his brother. It wouldn't be the last, by far. That day, Sam had only recognized it as an insult by the way the boy spoke the word, and he'd immediately denied it.

"My sister says he is," the boy said. "She says he can't talk."

Sam went home that day and found Dean in their room. He walked right up, poked his brother hard in the stomach, and demanded to know why he was a retard.

Years later, Sam would realize that this had been right around when Dean was first pulling out of his shell, first starting to really deal with their parents' death and his subsequent handicap, and that Sam's actions, unthinking and innocent in a way only a small child could be, had possibly set Dean back several steps in his development. At the time, all Sam knew was that his retarded brother punched him in the mouth and then refused to look at him or sign to him for a whole week.

* * *

"Where's Dean?" Mary loomed over the man in the chair, looking somehow large and imposing, despite her relatively small stature. Sam used to imagine what his mother might look like when he was growing up, but he sure as hell had never pictured this: short cropped hair frizzy and wild from too many hard-water showers in too many skeezy motel rooms, her face red and drawn from long hours on the road. "Where is my son?"

The man tied to the chair grinned, his solid black eyes flashing. "Dead."

Sam winced and Mary threw more holy water at the thing. "Liar."

The man's scream tapered off into a harsh, pained laugh that was almost worse than the screaming had been. "You wish. Can't say he lasted very long. We like a guy who screams and he, well. He didn't much have the voice for it."

Sam swallowed, but forced himself to stay back and quiet. He could try ordering the man to tell the truth, but he was terrified that he already was. Dean couldn't be dead. Sam would know. Maybe they hadn't always been the best brothers in the world but Sam would _know._ He was psychic. He knew these things.

Right, just like he'd "known" his mother was dead all those years. Like he'd "known" his brother was just a mechanic, and his uncle was a theology professor with a thing for esoteric art.

There was another splash and the loud, grating hiss of water turning to steam, strangely matching the hiss the demon let out as it tried to control its pained reaction. Sam watched, forcing himself to remain passive, as the demon ducked its head, caught its breath, and grinned again.

"Aaaah!" It said, a high pitched facsimile of a choked scream. "That's all we got. 'Aaaah! Aaaah!' Wouldn't even beg." It tilted its host body's head and smirked at Sam. "Too bad, really, because the first scream? That was killer. The kind of sound we live for. Wild and uncontrolled. Almost --" and it grinned again, flashing its teeth as it bit off the next word, "-- inhuman."

Mary lashed out with one hand, striking the grin from the man's face. "Sam, start reading."

It took a moment for Sam to find his voice, the sound of Dean's scream -- almost too easy to imagine, having heard the strange sounds his brother produced in distress many times throughout his childhood -- echoing in his ears. Mary turned her head. "Sam."

He could hear the slight reverberation in the name, though it didn't seem to affect him. Still, he nodded, cleared his throat, and started to read.

* * *

Sam took point while Mary worked the safe. He knew he shouldn't be surprised any more at the varied, less-than-legal talents his mother possessed, but he couldn't help the thrill of shock that ran through him as he stood over her crouched form in a cabin in Colorado, a pistol weighing heavily in his hands.

He didn't even know what they were stealing.

The demon had spoken, though it had taken most of the exorcism and every ounce of Voice Sam and Mary had between them. Dean was alive. The demons were willing to trade him for whatever was in that safe. Sam didn't have it in him to care what it was. It was enough to know it would get Dean back. Enough to know there was a Dean out there to _get_ back.

Mary stilled and Sam shot her a glance. "You got it?"

"Hold it right there."

Sam jumped and spun, raising the gun automatically and cursing himself for not having heard the man's approach. He'd gotten a lot better at that, improved by leaps and bounds since leaving Palo Alto behind, but by the looks of the old man standing across the room from him, rifle aimed precisely at Sam's center mass, the guy was light years more experienced.

"Don't shoot," Sam said, and because he was a _complete_ genius, he didn't even put any Voice behind it. Nothing to see here, just a cowering victim with a pea shooter. It was a wonder Dean hadn't dumped him at Bobby's months ago and never looked back.

"Maggie," the man said, eyes never leaving Sam's face. "What're you doing with my safe?"

Sam heard his mother shift behind him. "Daniel. I need the Colt."

"You know I can't do that."

"And you know I wouldn't ask if it weren't just that important."

Their words flashed back and forth around Sam, an old familiar argument that never ended, and it took him a moment to catch up. "We're here for a gun?"

Daniel still hadn't taken his eyes off Sam's, and his lips twitched into an expression only hunters ever seemed to wear. "Who's the jailbait, Maggie?"

"My son."

The smirk vanished as Daniel's eyebrows climbed. "I thought your sons were dead."

"One of them is going to be if I don't get the Colt."

Sam held still as he sifted through the countless questions he had, lining them up in order of importance the way he used to imagine doing in a court of law. He wasn't even remotely interested in continuing to stand here like an idiot while his estranged mother had a shouting match with a man holding a rifle.

He should've asked the questions ages ago. But in the four days since Dean had been taken and he and Mary had teamed up, Sam had lost the habit of asking questions. His mother was tight-lipped to a fault, a trait he remembered Carrie remarking on in Dean, one he hadn't realized was hereditary, and neither of them had the patience for lengthy explanations when Dean's life was on the line.

He turned his head, keeping the rifle barrel in his peripheral vision. "You have a Colt."

Mary flicked her eyes in his direction. "Not one that can kill _anything_."

Sam whipped his head back towards Daniel. "We need that gun."

"To save your dead son?" It was disconcerting, the way the man spoke to Mary while staring at Sam. "I'm sorry, Maggie, son of Maggie. Not a chance."

Mary straightened from her crouch in front of the safe, pulling up to her full height, her head next to Sam's shoulder. When she spoke, the air in the room seemed to vibrate. "Give me the Colt."

They drove off under a hail of bullets from Daniel's rifle. Sam didn't get the chance to ask his questions.

* * *

Sam was eight years old when Dean's therapist called the whole family in for a meeting. Sam was excited. He liked Dr. Martinson -- she always kept a candy jar on her desk and she had toys all over her office, and let Sam play with them whenever he had to wait with Carrie for Dean to finish a session. Dean was excited, too, twitchy with nervous energy and anticipation, and Sam had picked up on that excitement. He just about bubbled out of his skin when Dr. Martinson looked him in the eye and asked him to pay close attention while they talked, said she had some important news for him as well as everyone else.

There were a lot of people who didn't take an eight year old seriously. Dr. Martinson, a psychologist specializing in child development and family structure, wasn't one of them.

"I want to mainstream Dean," she said, meeting Dan and Carrie's eyes, then looking down and smiling at Sam. "He and I have been talking about it for the last couple of months, and we're both confident that Dean's ready." She looked at Dean, who didn't look all that confident to Sam, but twitched his lips and fluttered his hands in agreement, nonetheless. She looked back at Carrie and Dan. "With your permission, I'll be enrolling Dean part time at the middle school next year. He'll spend his mornings in the program here, as per usual, and his afternoons in regular classes. If it goes well, we may be able to register him full time by the spring."

Carrie beamed. Dan looked to Dean for confirmation, then nodded seriously. Sam wasn't sure why he'd had to listen so closely. Then Dr. Martinson met his eyes again.

"This isn't going to be easy for your brother, Sam," she said. "Dean's very special, and kids his age don't always like people who are different. He's going to need the support of his whole family, especially you."

Sam looked back and nodded. He felt a weight settle in along his shoulders and chest, like when he put on his backpack. He felt suddenly strong, grown up. Dr. Martinson had looked at him and saw him fit and asked him to take care of his brother, just like his brother took care of him.

He decided the first step to taking care of his brother was to understand the thing that made Dean so different. So, two days after he left the second grade, Sam took a vow of silence.

Carrie humored him, and when Dan looked at him strangely, she whacked him in the arm and they went for a private, whispered "parent talk", and when they came back, Dan ruffled Sam's hair and said he was proud of him. Sam took an afternoon to practice forming his hands into the signs that Dean used to communicate. It was hard -- he had to remind himself to knock on the table or stamp his foot to get attention instead of just calling out -- but Carrie approved and Dan was proud and Sam was learning more and more about his big brother by the hour. He started making plans for how he would get by at summer camp when there'd be people who didn't know sign language, started practicing his letters more, trying out drawing small figures and recognizable shapes. He spent all afternoon on it, an eternity of hours before Dean came home from . . . Sam didn't remember where he came home from. Dean was always out of the house in those days, bouncing from therapy session to special class, softball team for socialization to art classes for creative outlet. Almost anything as long as it got him out of the house and out of his shell for at least awhile every day. So there was no telling which Dean had been to that day, just that he wasn't around and then Carrie told Sam to wash up for dinner and he went up to their room and there he was.

Sam grinned and waved his hand in a hard hello, then twisted his hands into the sign for dinner.

Dean stared at him. Sam's grin fell and he tried again.

 _What's wrong?_ he signed, being very careful to get his fingers into the right shapes and hold them to the right places on his body.

Dean's eyes flicked from Sam's hands to his face, his brows drawing together. _Why aren't you talking?_

And Sam grinned again, and took his time, explaining all the ideas he had for how he would get along all summer without talking, showing Dean his notebook and the cards he'd made with pictures of balls and cats and tomatoes on them, all the things that were easy to draw or hard to spell. He showed Dean how he'd taught himself to snap his fingers, how he'd found his toy owl whistle to use when the finger snapping wasn't loud enough. Through it all, Dean just kept staring at him.

Then Sam finished. And Dean punched him in the stomach.

Sam doubled over, tears springing to his eyes. "Owwwwww! You hit me!"

Dean looked triumphant, and Sam realized what he'd done. He'd worked _all day_ on not speaking and Dean had ruined it and -- and -- and --

And Sam flew at his brother, his own hands flying, curling into claws to grab at Dean's hair while he kicked at his legs. They tumbled off the bed, Dean letting out soft grunts in counter point to Sam's shouts, neither really winning because Sam was too small and Dean didn't really want to hurt him. Finally, Sam ended up on top, pounding his fists down onto Dean's chest.

"You wrecked it! I was helping! I hate you, you -- you jerk!"

Dean smirked at him again and gestured, fingers forming a letter B and smacking against the side of his face. Which was, of course, when Carrie came in.

"Dean Winchester, don't you dare call your brother that!"

And that was how Sam learned the sign for "bitch".

* * *

"Don't use the Voice," Mary told him. Sam stared at her. She didn't take her eyes off the road.

"Right," he said. "Because that's worked so well for you over the years."

"It's important, Sam," she said. "You've unlocked that door, but you don't want to open it up any further."

This was Mary to a T. Forget the sweet, devoted mother stories his family -- his _real_ family, no matter what his birth certificate might say -- had told him over the years. Mary was stubborn, cold, hypocritical, and secretive. She was a bitch with a gun, a mercenary, and there were times that Sam was almost glad Dean was missing. That he couldn't see what his beloved mother really was.

He twisted sideways in his seat, leveling his very best glare at the side of her face. "I'm not your soldier," he said. "I do know what I'm doing."

"You really don't."

"You didn't seem to have a problem with it when I stopped that demon in Nebraska from gutting you and Dean."

"You shouldn't have done that, either."

She wouldn't bend, and Sam didn't feel like arguing. He shifted back against the door and stared out the windshield, shaping his fingers into a letter B and tapping it to the side of his face.

"Yeah," Mary said. "Well, you're the son of one."

He glanced over at her, his eyes wide, but her eyes stayed glued on the road.

"Promise me, Sam," she said. "You won't use the Voice again."

"Yeah," Sam said, looking out to the passing corn field, letter B still pressed to his jaw. "Whatever."

* * *

They'd kept Dean tied to a bed in an apartment complex in Jefferson City.

He looked like crap -- as bad as Sam had ever seen him. His skin was pale where it wasn't marked with bruises or the remains of days old grease left over from his work on Mary's car. Sam's rush forward to check on his brother was halted by a firm backhand to the chest. Mary stepped in front of him, ignoring his wide eyed stare at the back of her head, and unscrewed a flask of holy water.

"We have to check, Sam."

Sam swallowed, then nodded and stayed back as she splashed water over Dean's prone form. Dean jerked against his bonds, letting out a hoarse cough, fingers fluttering into the shapes of signed words, and Sam didn't wait to see if his mother was satisfied before hurrying over and untying Dean's hands. "Hey. Hey, you're alright, man. We got you."

Dean blinked blearily at him, then around the room, pausing for a moment on Mary before continuing on. His hands flopped against the mattress twice, then finally came up shakily against his chest.

 _Drugged._

Sam nodded, repeating the word out loud for Mary's benefit as he tugged and lifted Dean into a seated position. Dean pushed back at him, swiping at his chest with a limp hand and nearly clocking Sam in the chin with the other, but between the drugs and the beatings, he barely had the strength to form words, let alone hold himself up. Sam bundled him in against his chest, then tugged him slowly to his feet.

"We've got to get out of here."

Dean blinked at Mary, his hands shaking hard despite the way he braced his arms against his stomach.

 _They wanted a weapon._

Sam opened his mouth to translate, but a *thunk* against the bedroom door reminded them that Dean's demon guards were still there, and Mary moved to push them towards the window.

"We have to _go_ ," she said. "We'll talk when we're on the road."

Dean offered no resistance when Sam slipped his arm over his shoulder, but he didn't offer much by way of help, either. His head listed against Mary's when she helped Sam maneuver him onto the fire escape, and something tightened in his chest when he saw her lips brush the tips of Dean's matted hair. Then the door cracked and moments later they were passing Dean between them as they rushed down the fire escape and out into the street.

 _They wanted a weapon,_ Dean signed again.

"Yeah." Sam patted absently at Dean's shoulder, then adjusted his grip when Dean's knees dipped closer to the sidewalk. "Don't worry, it's safe."

And then Sam was on the ground, and there was a man on top of him and he was punching and punching and punching Sam in the face. He thought about blocking, then wondered insanely if the drug they used on Dean was contagious, because his arms didn't seem to be working.

There was the sound of an explosion. The man stared down at Sam, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed as sparks flickered in the hole that'd formed in the side of his head. The man toppled, and Mary was there, tucking the Colt away and holding out her hand.

"You said you'd left it in the car," he said, ignoring her hand and pushing himself shakily to his feet.

Mary glanced back at Dean, propped like a drunk against the alley wall. "I lied."

* * *

The cabin was Mary's idea, a ramshackle -- and Sam was now certain he hadn't truly known the meaning of that word until he saw the place -- two room thing hours from Jefferson City and the hoard of demons that had taken over the Sunrise Apartments. Sam sat on a couch that he hoped to god was originally dull green and brown while Mary paced back and forth in front of them. Dean's head weighed about three thousand pounds on Sam's left shoulder, but Sam wasn't about to let his brother out of his sight. Besides, if the couch was disgusting, the bare mattress in the other room of the cabin might well have been a biohazard, and Dean had enough problems without being eaten alive by bedbugs while he slept off the last of the drugs in his system.

A quick check by Mary had assured them -- well, assured her and led to promise after promise to Sam -- that Dean was suffering no more than a drug cocktail hangover and a few nasty bruises, despite how long it had taken for them to find him. Dean was going to be just fine. Which left other questions hanging in the air to deal with.

Sam watched his mother pace, picking at the small folds in his jeans. "That guy in the alley," he said. "You know there was a person in there."

Mary paused and looked at Sam. She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. Sam had always assumed that Dean had developed his eloquent, withering glare as a defense mechanism due to his muteness, but he was now starting to think it was actually genetic.

Sam stared back. If it was genetic, then he damned well got it, too.

Mary started pacing again. "He was killing you."

Dean grunted softly in the back of his throat. Sam looked down and saw his eyelashes flutter. He looked back up.

"You just can't ever deal with what you've done, can you?" He wasn't talking just about the man in the alley way any more, and they both knew it. Hell, Dean probably knew it, too, and he was still half out of his head.

"We're not talking about this now, Sam." Mary made it to the window and paused again, scanning the thick line of salt she'd placed on the sill. "The demons aren't going to give up this easy. We need a game plan."

"Well maybe it's time you told us the whole story then," Sam said, his hands clenching into fists in his lap as he resisted the urge to jump to his own feet. The only reason he didn't stand and use every inch of his height against his mother was the weight of his brother against his side.

Dean's hand smacked gently into Sam's ribs and he looked down. His brother was signing, hands wobbling in the ASL equivalent of slurring his words. Sam couldn't make it out, at first, until Dean grunted again and pushed himself further upright, taking his weight back from Sam and letting his head fall against the back of his couch. He frowned and stared at his fingers, took a deep breath, then started again.

 _Sam's right._

Sam blinked. He was?

Mary stared at Dean, then looked pointedly at Sam.

"He's agreeing with me."

Dean nodded, hands working again and Sam hurried to translate.

"You've been lying to us from the beginning. We deserve to know the truth."

He never thought he'd see the day. The way Dean spoke about Mary growing up, and the way he deferred to her even as little as an hour after reuniting in Nebraska, Sam was certain that Dean would rather dig himself into his own grave then go against his beloved mother's word.

"We don't have _time_ for this," Mary said, striding back to the couch. "This demon isn't just going to stop. John _died_ for this --"

Dean's hands worked furiously. _And we're going to die_ too _if you don't --_

The limited light of the electric lantern started to flicker and all three of them froze. Sam had never seen his brother's eyes go so wide.

 _It's here._

Sam didn't need to translate. Mary had come to the same conclusion.

 _Where's the gun?_

"He wants the gun."

Mary shook her head. "I've got it. It's safe."

Dean shook his head. _I overheard while they were --_ His fingers fluttered uncertainly and he swallowed. _I know what to do. Give it to me._

Sam translated automatically, eyes glued to Dean's hands, but he didn't miss the way Mary tensed at the demand.

"Trust me on this Dean --"

Dean shook his head harder, starting to get agitated. _This is bullshit. When are you going to trust_ me _?_

Mary wavered for a moment, pulling the Colt from the back of her jeans, her fingers white around the grip. "This isn't your fight, Dean. Let me handle it."

 _Give me the gun._

Sam looked from his mother to his brother, inching forward in his seat. Dean was fulling supporting his own weight now, the effects of the drugs wearing off surprisingly fast.

Maybe a little too fast.

"Mom's right, Dean. You're in no condition to --"

 _Give. Me. The. Gun._

Sam stood. "Don't give it to him."

The look on Mary's face was shocked. The one on Dean's was apoplectic.

"Sam?"

Sam shifted to face Dean, his back to his mother. He stared hard into his brother's face, the way he held his body, the way his hands shaped his words.

"That's not Dean."

Dean's jaw dropped, his eyebrows shooting up. Sam felt Mary step up close behind him.

"How do you know?"

Sam shook his head. "He's just -- he's _different._ "

Dean's fingers started shaking again. _Sam, what're you talking about?_

"I know Dean better than anyone. I don't know how it got past the holy water, but that's not Dean."

Mary stepped forward again, shifting her weight to place Sam slightly behind her as she raised the Colt.

"You're absolutely sure?"

Dean stared from Mary to Sam and back again, his hands now shaking too hard to form words. Sam swallowed.

He wasn't. He just knew his brother. Dean _would_ have taken Mary's side. He wouldn't bring up an argument, not now, not in the middle of a crisis. And he sure as hell knew better than to ask to handle an unfamiliar firearm when he wasn't at 100%, not when there was a well trained soldier like Mary on hand, one who knew the weapon, to take point. "I -- yes."

Dean deflated. It was a tiny thing, the way his shaking hands dropped an inch, his brows lowering, his whole body curling inward a few degrees, but to Sam it felt like being punched in the mouth all those years ago. Dean nodded, then spread his hands wide, not needing signs or words to get his point across.

 _Then shoot me._

Mary leveled the gun at Dean's head, and Sam wished he could close his eyes against the cold determination in her eyes, or the echoing expression in Dean's. Mary cocked the trigger. Dean's gaze didn't waver. The moment seemed to stretch into a lifetime, suspended in tension that made the air vibrate and sing against Sam's skin.

Then Mary spoke.

"Show yourself."

When Mary used the Voice, Sam could feel the sound echo against the insides of his skull. Mary wasn't using the Voice now. She was using something much, much more powerful.

She'd opened the door. The one she'd made Sam promise not to toy with. She'd thrown it open and was now running through full tilt.

Dean's head rocked back like he'd been shot and his eyes went wide, then fell shut. When they opened again, just a second later, they were filmed over with a swirling, sickly yellow. He smiled.

It was the most horrible expression Sam had ever seen on his brother's face.

"You've been practicing."

Sam shivered. Dean's voice, the few times Sam had heard him speak, had been broken. It had sounded like Dean was forcing the words through shards of glass and past blockades of barbed wire. Those three words held none of the scratch and squeak that Sam was used to. They were a smooth, pleasant rumble, cocky and seductive. They were what Dean's voice _should_ have been, if Mary had never stolen it from him.

Mary's aim with the gun never wavered. "Get out of him."

Dean tilted his head. "Or, what? You'll kill me?" He looked down at his chest, then back up, lips curling in a self-satisfied smirk. "And ruin this body? Oh, but wait. Maybe it's already ruined. Maybe Dean's already dead, stuck inside his own animated corpse for the final showdown." Those yellow eyes went wide, Dean's face falling slack in childish innocence. "Maybe it's better to leave me in here. You don't want to lose your little boy too soon."

Sam shot a glance at Mary. "Mom, you can't --"

Mary's voice dropped an octave, and the air shivered with the force of her will. "Get out of him."

Dean gagged once, then recovered, mouth forming a soft "tsk-tsk". "You don't honestly think that's going to work, do you?" He glanced over at Sam, as though to get him on his side, then back again. "I made you what you are, Mary Harrison. Why would I give you power over me?"

Sam's eyes went wide. "It's you."

"And he gets it! Just a little slow on the uptake, there, Sammy. But don't worry, we've got a wonderful consolation prize for you."

Mary stepped to the side, putting herself more firmly in front of Sam while still keeping him in her peripheral vision. Her aim never faltered. "Get out of him."

"Really, Mary, we just went over this --"

Mary snorted, the sound so sharp and loud that even the demon fell silent. "I know you gave me the power, Azazel." Dean's face didn't move, but Sam suddenly had the feeling the demon inside him flinched. "It took me a long time to work it out, but you had to. To get what you wanted, you had to give a human power over demons. _All_ the demons."

The demon in Dean frowned. "You're not that strong."

Mary smiled. "Wanna bet?" She stepped forward. "Get out of him."

Dean gagged again, his hands coming up to his throat, the yellow in his eyes flickering for just the barest moment. "Step back. Or I'll make your precious little boy bite out his own tongue."

Mary shrugged. "Go ahead. Not like he can talk, anyway."

Even the demon looked a little shocked at that one. He smiled wickedly. "Oh now that's just cold." He glanced at Sam. "What do you think of your momma now, Sammy?"

Mary's finger tightened over the trigger. "Get out of him. _NOW._ "

This time, Dean's gag actually brought up a little puff of black from between his lips, which the demon sucked back in with a pained gulp. "No."

Mary's lips lifted at the edges, and though Sam had spent the last several days getting firmly acquainted with just how much of a hardass his mother could be, this was the first time he'd found her scary. "Get out of him," she said one last time, "and into me."

The next few moments were chaos. Sam threw himself at Mary, now convinced she'd gone completely insane, only to be met by a wall of force which flung him backward across the room, well out of the line of fire. Dean's mouth opened and smoke poured forth. When the last tendril left him, Dean's eyes -- no longer yellow -- went wide and he threw out his hand as though he could pull it back in by will alone, letting out a broken, bloodied "NO!" that seemed to rock the very foundations of the cabin.

It did no good. Mary opened her own mouth, taking in the roiling smoke in a single, long breath with a sound Sam could only describe as the howl of Hell itself. Then her mouth snapped shut, her eyes went wide and yellow and she smiled.

And raised the Colt to her own chin.

And fired.

* * *

Before he learned the truth, Sam had only been in a single real fight. Dean had taught him how to punch and kick and brawl with the best of them, had taken him to the gym and demanded he practice, signing time and again that Sam needed to be prepared, that he never knew when he might need to defend himself. He got Sam to beat on heavy bags until his knuckles were bloody, and even tried to get Sam to spar, try his moves out on an actual moving, thinking target, though Sam had always refused.

Before he learned the truth, Sam had only used the skills his brother taught him on one living person.

And that person was Dean.

When Dean grabbed him by the shoulders in his bedroom, yanking him up from the mattress and away from the flames swallowing Jess on the ceiling, Sam fought and punched and kicked the whole way. Dean shoved him bodily out the door and down the stairs onto the tiny lawn that fronted the building, ignoring every swipe and every jab, blocking Sam's attempts to escape and run back in at every turn.

When he and Dean faced each other in the parking lot, standing by the side of Dean's beloved Impala, and Dean refused to let him back in, refused to explain what was going on, refused to explain where he had been and why he'd been lying and how he'd known to be in that room at that time to grab Sam and why, _why_ he hadn't rescued Jess as well, Sam threw his entire body weight into a hook that caught Dean across the side of the face, immediately opening a cut on Dean's cheekbone and nearly knocking them both over.

And when that didn't make Dean talk and didn't make Sam feel better, he did it again. And again. And again.

Dean taught Sam everything he knew about fighting. Sam had never gone up against another living person before, not with any real training or intent to injure. Dean could easily have blocked him, taken him down, made him stop and think and calm the _fuck_ down before the authorities showed up and Sam got his ass arrested.

But all Dean did was stand there and take it.

The look on Dean's face when Sam finally ran out of steam and collapsed, half sobbing, to the asphalt, was burned into Sam's mind forever. It was a look of shock and loss and overwhelming grief. And it was a look of deep, scarring guilt.

It was an expression Sam would carry with him to his grave. And it was the same expression Sam saw on his brothers face as their mother's body slumped to its knees, then toppled over onto its side with a dull, muted thump.


End file.
